Manifest Destiny
by palewhite n icecold
Summary: To Edward, the bipolar suffering insomniac, life as he knows it is far from perfect. Running from his past, being pulled by his future, will he find the missing piece that will finally make him whole? Sexual content and harsh language warnings.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I make no monies from Stephanie Meyers' series or characters. I just kidnap them and make them do naughty things.**

_**A big thanks to the awesome betas over at Project Team Beta, Victorylayne and HolletLA.  
><strong>_

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

_All my life I've been searching for something  
>Something never comes, never leads to nothing<br>Nothing satisfies, but I'm getting close  
>Closer to the prize at the end of the rope<em>

All night long I dream of the day  
>When it comes around, and it's taken away<br>Leaves me with the feeling that I fear the most  
>Feel it come to life when I see your ghost.<p>

All My Life – Foo Fighters

"Ahem…"

Dr. Michael Newton, a young UW graduate in his fifth year at the Adult Psychiatry Clinic, takes a moment to clear his throat before beginning his notes.

"Today is Friday, June 17th. His tone is flat and emotionless as he recites the day's specifics. "It is…" Breathing heavily through his nose, he pauses to look at his watch. "2:00pm."

Flipping a notebook open, the young doctor scans the file that is resting on his knee while rubbing his chin absently with his finger. "So, Edward..."

He moves the small recorder away from his mouth and places it gently on the coffee table that sits between him and his most difficult patient. "How have you been?"

The thoughtful psychiatrist always opens with the same question. In general, he finds that his patients appreciate the consistency.

"Just peachy, Doc. And you?" Edward's response is no different, nor the way he reclines lazily in the oversized winged-back chair.

"I've been well. Took the family to visit my mother in Indiana."

Edward can feel Dr. Newton's eyes boring into him, and doesn't miss the _"mother"_ reference that was cleverly slipped into the conversation. Before ending the session last week, a suggestion had been made by the doctor that Edward call his mother, to whom he hasn't spoken in three years.

He didn't.

Edward smirks and looks down at the coffee table that sits in front of him, nodding his head in recognition. "Subtle."

The doctor ignores Mr. Cullen's sarcasm, seeing it as just another defense mechanism used to avoid and deflect. Crossing his right leg over his left, he sighs. "I take it you didn't call her."

Edward shakes his head, only minutely, before answering. "Come on, let's face it. She doesn't want to hear from _me_. It would be a waste of cell phone minutes."

Dr. Newton — clearly tired of hearing the same excuse over and over again — scratches his head with the end of his pen and huffs. Instead of dropping the subject, he tries again, using a different approach.

"Don't you think she'd like to know how you are…that you've started playing again?" The clever doctor smiles and raises an eye to his patient. He knows that if anything has gotten Edward's attention, this has.

A few months ago, after starting his sessions at the Clinic, Edward offhandedly announced that he had gotten his old Stratocaster out of storage and was writing music again. Dr Newton hadn't missed the smile his patient attempted to hold back at the mention of his guitar, but kept silent, knowing he would bring it up again in his own time. Later that same month Edward mentioned casually that, along with the calluses, he had finally worked up the nerve to audition for a spot at the bar where he works. It was just last week, after being asked about his weekend plans, that Edward finally admitted to getting the opening spot at the bar, playing some of his original music and opening up for some pretty big local bands.

"_I sling beers for a few hours, mostly on autopilot, until the noise and crowd gets to be too much. Then I get to drown it all out. As soon as I get up on that stage, everything falls quiet. It's just me and my guitar. Everything else just…fades away."_

Dr. Newton studies him, waiting for the intended reaction. Finally Edward's eyes look up from their focal point on the floor and hesitantly focus in on him.

Now that he has got his patient's attention, he asks, "Does she even know you're in Nashville?"

Edward's eyes fall back to the floor.

"Okay, let's say for the sake of argument, that you're wrong. What if she _does_ want to hear from you? What if she's waiting by the phone every night, praying that you call? What then?"

Edward chuckles lightly under his breath. "I see what you're trying to do here, Doc, but let's be realistic."

"Yes, let's. I think it's about time you fill me in on why you insist on distancing yourself from your family. So, you think you're a disappointment. So what? We've all disappointed our parents at some point, but they get over it. You're going to have to give me more of a reason than that."

With a sudden lurch forward, Edward is sitting on the edge of his seat, his upper body leaning over the narrow coffee table that separates the two.

"I don't _think_, Mike! I _know_!" His nostrils flare and his jaw tenses, reminding the doctor of just how unstable the mentally ill can be.

"I was — **am** — a _constant_ disappointment. You see how miserable I am as an adult. You can only imagine how fucking bad it was when I was living at home."

Suddenly, his features soften. Edward looks away as his memories take him back to age sixteen.

"Nothing, and I mean _nothing_, made me happy. I tried it all: drinking, drugs, sex. You name it; I did it. Fuck all that teen angst bullshit you hear parents whining about in your little group sessions. That was nothing compared to my hell."

Edward's head shakes slowly from side to side. "And my poor mother… she thought she could fix me. But what she didn't know was that I was _beyond_ broken." He closes his mouth as he swallows thickly. "I was... _shattered_."

When Edward's eyes focus once again, Dr. Newton watches as his face twists with incredulity. "Can you even imagine what that did to her? I made my mother feel like a failure, because she couldn't fill the emptiness I felt, that fucking bitch of a hole that's been there my whole goddamn life. I love my mother, and I miss her, but I'm not about to move back in her life with my suitcase of shit just so that _I_ can feel better. Don't ask me to do that! I won't!" His voice sounds so desperate; the doctor is almost remorseful for asking such a thing.

"Okay, Edward, okay." As stubborn as he is, the good doctor knows when to back down from a fight. With little hesitation, he decides that this conversation is better left for later.

"Look, I know this is hard for you, but I'm just trying to understand. I want to help you, but you have to let me." He waits for a response from his restless patient, taking note of how maniacally he pulls at his hair, taking clumps of auburn out at a time.

Edward doesn't reply, but stiffly nods his head and sits back in his chair.

Scratching his manicured nails up and down the stubble on his cheek, Dr. Newton looks at his watch and tentatively moves on to the next question.

"How have you been sleeping?"

Edward leans back in the chair, his hands gripping its broad arms. "Truth? Like shit."

"How many hours?"

At their last session, Edward admitted to only getting twenty to twenty-five hours of sleep per _week_, so Dr. Newton knows better than to be hopeful.

With a shrug of his shoulders, he mumbles, "'Bout the same."

The doctor doesn't seem surprised by this, or the dark circles and bloodshot eyes that have become more prominent since he last saw him. In the last few months, Edward has been diagnosed with insomnia… amongst other things.

"So, what do you do at night when you can't sleep?"

A wicked smile pulls at Edward's lips, while the question elicits memories from the night before.

"Fuck until I pass out," he answers, laughing under his breath.

Edward likes to make the straight-laced doctor squirm by using words like "fuck", even though they're not necessary. Last week he used the word "pussy" just to see how red Dr. Newton's ears could get.

Unlike his patient, the doctor doesn't appreciate the verbiage, and decides to make his patient squirm instead.

"Really? And does _that _stop the dreams?"

Dr. Newton braces himself for the reaction he is likely to get, but there is none — no sudden outburst or sound whatsoever. It is as if the question itself has rendered Edward completely paralyzed and unable to breathe.

"Edward?"

After a moment, his patient answers with a quick shake of his head.

"Are they the same?" Dr. Newton asks pensively, regretful for the way he introduced such a touchy subject.

Edward nods once.

"Let's talk about it."

This statement gets the reaction the doctor has been waiting for, and he flinches slightly at its volume. "I have! Every time my ass is in this goddamn chair!" Edward's fist slams down on the arm of the chair, unleashing his frustration against its stiff leather.

This sudden outburst causes the first notes of the session to be jotted hurriedly on the yellow college-ruled paper.

_Increase of manic episodes — Current medication ineffective — Possible candidate for Lithium treatment._

After scribbling down the fragmented sentences, Dr. Newton tries again.

"I understand your frustration, Edward, but no one said this would be easy. Now, tell me again… and start from the beginning."

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><p><em><strong>Thanks for coming along on the ride! I promise not to disappoint : )<strong>_

_**P.S. Reviews make me type faster.**_


	2. Mixin' Misery With Gin

**Author's note: **

**My Edward suffers from bi-polar disorder, insomnia and anxiety disorder. I've done my research on them all, including the medication that can be given for each illness. I am, in no way, saying that everything in this is correct, but only that I have done my very best to keep it as accurate as I possibly can. For those of you who suffer from these illnesses, I ask that you remember that my character is fictional and that there are many levels to the illnesses listed. **

**I want to say thanks to my beta Victorylayne. She is truly awesome, and to say other wise is a crime that is punishable by death...  
><strong>

**D'oh yeah, I almost forgot… **

***clears throat* **

**I am not Stephanie Meyer, nor do I use her series for my own monetary gain. I do, however, get my rocks off at the expense of her characters. **

***giggles and covers mouth with hand***

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 1: <strong>__**Mixin' Misery And Gin**_

_I take one, one, one 'cause you left me  
>And two, two, two for my family<br>And three, three, three for my heartache  
>And four, four, four for my headaches<br>And five, five, five for my lonely  
>And six, six, six for my sorrow<br>And seven, seven n-n-n-n-no tomorrow  
>And eight, eight… I forget what eight was for<br>And nine, nine, nine for a lost god  
>And ten, ten, ten, ten…everything, everything, everything, everything…<em>

Kiss Off – Violent Femmes

_One year… one fucking year. _

That's how long my shrink — whose balls must be freakish in size — advised me to abstain from sex and drinking. All I could do was stare at him, as if his colossal balls were dangling from his chin, and wait for him to admit it was a bad joke. When he didn't, I assumed he was high. Just when I was about to call him out for smoking crack on the clock, he started spouting off some metaphorical bullshit about _"Band-Aids"_ and how they _"stop the bleeding without healing the wound."_

Band-Aids? What the fuck does he call all the drugs he has me strung out on?

For as long as I can remember, I've been on some form of antidepressant or another. Now, I'm a walking pharmaceutical. He has me on every type of mind-altering drug known to man, each serving a different purpose with the promise of a _"happier, more productive life". _Xanex keeps me in my skin, while Seroquel keeps me out of my head. Ambien gets me at least a few hours of sleep, while Lexapro gets my ass out of bed. And — as of yesterday — the hefty dose of Lithium keeps me from wanting to murder every-goddamn-body and then laughing about it.

Even with all these medications pumping through me, I feel like I'm barely holding on; possibly even more so _because_ of them.

_Which brings me back to booze and pussy. _

The only two pleasures in my miserable life, and I'm supposed to just drop them because he tells me to? An inmate on death row wouldn't be asked to quit smoking, now would he? While they wait to be sent to hell, I'm already here and living it. If anything, I should indulge myself a little more.

It's only when I'm drunk off my ass, or balls-deep inside a warm pussy, that I'm able to forget how fucked up I really am. At that moment, I'm just a normal guy, doing what normal guys do. So, if it means I can get even a moment's rest from my constant state of unbalance, or — by the grace of God — look at myself in the mirror without wanting to break the son of a bitch into pieces, then I don't care if I drink myself to death or fuck until my dick falls off. Either way, the gain would be worth the loss.

No sex, no booze, for one fucking year?Fuck that!

Which was my exact response to Dr. Dick-For-Brains — just before I laughed in his face and walked out of his office — and is the reason I am now waking up with an angry hangover, yet satisfied cock.

"Uhhgg," I groan at the stench of sex and cheap perfume, feeling my stomach turn at the thought of what stray I might have brought home last night.

As I lay with my leg in the wet spot, my dick wedged uncomfortably between my stomach and the bed, I struggle to remember any part of what happened last night after leaving the bar.

_If it was anything like the night before… I get the gist of it._

I've been hanging out at the bar a lot more lately, even on the nights I'm not scheduled to work. It's to the point that I am seriously considering having my mail forwarded. Every night plays out the same: I go to work, I play my set, I get drunk and I get laid. It's a vicious cycle that ultimately leaves me feeling just as hollow the next morning as I was the night before.

I try to lift my head, and feel the pillowcase come with it. At some point in the night, my whisky-laced drool has encrusted the pillow to my cheek, my five o'clock shadow acting as a sort of Velcro to help adhere it in place. With my eyes closed shut, I slowly rip my face away from the crustaceous fabric and flop exhaustedly onto my back.

"I'm getting too old for this shit," I grunt, the last word coming out as a cough.

_At twenty-five, I shouldn't feel as old as I do, but those few years haven't exactly been easiest._

When the cough turns into a fit, I reach for the nightstand and slap blindly in search of my Marlboros.

"_Baby you're a fiiiirework."_

That's when I hear it. The most god-awful voice breaks through the roar of the shower, and I can only assume it is occupied by the unfamiliar body I don't remember enjoying last night.

"_Come on; let your colors burst..."_

I move to sit on the edge of the bed, planting my feet on the cold laminate that covers all 400 square feet of my tiny studio apartment.

"_Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh."_

_You're gonna leave 'em all in awe, awe, awe!"_

"Fuckin' hate that song," I grumble to myself as I fish out the last cigarette from the crumpled pack of Marlboros, and place it between my lips.

I reach for my jeans, pulling them smoothly up my legs, until my toe is caught in a frayed hole and I stumble ass first into the corner of my dresser. It's nothing I'm not used to; living in a shoebox that barely fits a bed, a dresser and a TV, you learn to cope.

My lighter is nowhere to be found, so I light my cigarette off the toaster, and prepare for the _morning after_.

At this point, waking up with a random woman in my bed on more nights than none, I have it down to a science. First, I make the coffee — it helps to break the ice. Next, I set out the cream and sugar, even though I take mine black. Then…I wait.

After the vast number of one-night stands I've enjoyed and forgotten, I have perfected the art of _"eradication without provocation". _In short_, _I lie. Every man does it; it's in our DNA. We lie to get them into bed, and we lie to get them out.

By the time I hear the shower cut off and the bathroom door open, I already know how this is all going down.

"Hey, you," a long-legged blonde croons from across the room.

I close my eyes, and take a deep breath, trying to hide my disinterest.

"Hey," I exhale, flashing the most sincere smile I can muster while holding up my half-empty cup. "Coffee?"

"Not exactly what I had in mind." She smiles wickedly, letting her towel drop to the floor.

I smirk and shake my head.

The test…

I know this test. Apparently, it's universal and used by women the world over to find out if the guy really likes her, or just used her as an easy lay. One out of every three women I've slept with has given me this test and it's never easy to watch. It's sad really, seeing their confidence fall to the floor with their clothes. As much as I hate to say it, the answer is quite simple. If we fucked them while we were drunk, more than likely we wouldn't if we were sober.

I know, I know, it's a chauvinistic thing to say. But in the back of their minds, these women… they know it's true.

Standing to my feet, I watch as her hands roam over her body with anticipation. With hesitation, I walk to where she is standing and wrap my arms around her slender waist.

"Mmmm" she moans, pressing her damp body against mine.

_I should be enjoying this. I should want nothing more than to spin her around and fuck her hard against the wall…_

I don't, though. Instead, I slide my arms from her cold, wet skin and shuffle my feet toward my bare, and rarely used, kitchenette.

"Just let me take my meds first." I turn to watch her reaction.

She eyes me warily, crossing her arms over her breasts, and looks a little more than uncomfortable by my mention of "medication".

I pull open the cabinet above the kitchen sink, bringing out my Glad Ware of prescription bottles and loose weed.

You would think that this alone would make a woman run, regardless if she thinks I'm a fucking junky or diseased freak, but it doesn't and never does; it just makes her more curious.

"So, what are they for? Are you sick or something?"

I laugh a little under my breath. "Or something."

I'm probably laying it on a bit thick, but I'm ready for the shitty morning to be over. Mornings, in general, are rough enough for me; the naked and nameless guest only makes it worse.

I notice her snatch the towel from the floor and quickly wrap it around her body. "What… What does that mean…exactly?" she stutters, her brash confidence swallowed up by her sudden nerves.

With a palm full of pills, I turn to her and pluck one from the scattered dozen.

_And so the fun begins..._

"This one… This one's my favorite," I tell her with a smile spreading across my face. "It stops the voices for a while. And let me tell you, they are some sick bastards. The things they try to get me to do… But don't worry, I didn't listen to them last night." I wink at her, throw the blue pill toward the back of my throat and swallow.

The truth is, the only voices _I_ hear are my neighbors, Aro and Felix, calling each other "bitch" and "tramp" during their lover's spats. Let's just say, the local law enforcement knows them by name.

Picking up the next one, I hold it in front of my face and roll it back and forth between my finger and thumb.

"This hard-to-swallow fucker is for my…_paranoia_." My eyes dart around the room as I whisper the last word.

"My Psychiatrist says I have _'irrational suspicion'_. What he doesn't know, is that the government puts computer chips in these things, so they always know my location. Why else would they be so big?"

Although paranoia is not among the long list of mental illnesses I've been diagnosed with, I do have a sneaking suspicion that Aro — my previously mentioned homosexual neighbor — wants me to play on _his_ _team_.

_Seriously, if he eyes my junk one more time…_

Eventually, with pill after pill, and lie after creative lie, I notice _her _(let's call her Tanya) start to pull worriedly at her towel.

Down to the last tablet, I place it under my tongue. The bitter white pill begins to dissolve almost immediately.

_Never waste a good Xanax bar_, is my motto. Why swallow it and suffer another half hour until it hits, when you can get it to the blood stream in a matter of minutes? It's the difference between instant gratification and… a panic attack.

"And this one…" I say, closing my eyes and letting my head roll back against the cabinets, "This one is heaven, in its purest form."

I hear my words coming out slow and lazy, a sign that the benzo is already taking affect.

With hesitation, Tanya (yeah, that's her name) begins side-stepping with her back against the wall, taking full advantage of the little distance the small room allows.

"Uhm… Wow." She's dumbfounded, and I laugh internally at the way she is frantically searching for her clothes.

As she rambles on and on, I try to focus in on her words. The only words I manage to pick up on "the drycleaner's" and "I hate I can't stay." The more she talks, the deeper I slip into my Xanax oblivion until her voice begins to imitate a wha wha pedal and I catch myself reaching for my guitar.

By the time I'm able to catch what she is saying, she is fully dressed and headed out the door.

"…but I had a great time. Maybe I'll see you around."

All I can manage is a half-assed wave, before she slams the door and I'm left all alone.

_Just the way I like it…_

Mean while, as I enjoy my time alone, the day drags at an excruciatingly slow pace.

To keep myself from staring at the slothful clock, I put all my effort into staying busy. After eating a bowl of Captain Crunch, and fapping to an old porn film I've had since I was fifteen, I finally get around to changing my sheets.

_I should really burn them…_

By three o'clock, I've done everything I can think of doing, and there is still two hours left until my shift starts. This is the time of day that I hate the most: the stagnant quiet that comes when I'm still. As soon as it creeps in I feel it, and there's not a damn thing I can do to stop it.

_Idle time __**is **__the devil's playground…_

With time at a standstill, and with the affects of the Xanax long gone, my sudden clarity is almost painful. My skin is too tight, the air too thick, and my mind is taking me to places I'd rather not be. I know what's coming, and the harder I fight it, the quicker it seems to come…until it's gnawing through my subconscious and I have no other choice but to let it in. The pain, the desperation, and the yearning all comes back and I'm lost inside the dream from the night before that has kept me awake for as long as I can remember…

_I'm searching. For what, I don't know. All I know is that I have to find it, and if I don't, I'll die. I'm racing through the streets of my old neighborhood, the city looking more like a ghost town than it ever has. Even with the oddness of my surroundings, I don't stop; I look in windows and panic at the thought of never finding what I'm after. Once I make it to the outskirts of town, my feet kicking up the sand that covers the shore of the ocean, I hear it. The voice that echoes through the rain is soft in my ear, saying my name over and over again. I turn quickly toward the sound, and there they are: brown eyes — brown, bottomless, and beautiful — staring at me through the fog. I've never felt so… happy — happy and whole, two things I never thought I'd be. But as soon as they appear, they are gone. The ghost town comes back into focus and I'm left feeling even more alone than I ever thought possible._

It doesn't take long for the memory to pass, and I find myself crying in a puddle on the floor. I have no recollection of falling out of my chair, or when the hell I pissed on myself… but I did.

No one has ever been able to tell me why this happens, what the dream means and why it affects me this way. Dr. Newton has tried, but it's hard to explain to someone who's not as neurotic as me. When I _do_ talk about it, that's about the time he starts scribbling in his notebook, and talking about _upping this_ and _adding that._ He believes the dreams stem from my _'unresolved abandonment issue'_ from being put in foster care at age five. You see, Carlisle and Esme are my adoptive parents, although they're the only ones I've ever known. Truth is, I don't even remember my real mother or the day I moved into the Cullen home. It just seems like I've always been there. One of my first memories is of Carlisle taking me to a Mariners game and feeding me hotdogs until I threw up in my popcorn. So, I have to call _bullshit_ on the good doctor's theory. Something else is driving these dreams, and whatever it is, it's bigger than me.

Once my breathing steadies and my heart no longer threatens my ribcage, I'm able to pull myself to my knees. Grabbing the edge of the table, I slowly stand to my feet, swaying a bit when I let go. It's not until I take a step that I'm aware of how uncomfortably my piss-soaked jeans are sticking to my thighs. I've never wanted a shower so much in my life, as I peel the irritating pants from my legs.

The first thing I see as I step inside the bathroom is the fist-shaped hole that is distorting the medicine cabinet mirror.

_I had a bad day and… Let's just say I have anger issues, and leave it at that_.

As I look at my kaleidoscope reflection through the broken glass, I groan and rub my face. It's been a few days since I've ventured a look at myself and now I'm regretting that decision. How I got _any_ woman to come home with me last night is a fucking mystery. I look exactly how I feel, and to tell you the truth: it's not pretty.

I glance over my features — the dark circles, the bloodshot eyes, the thick stubble that is edging its way over my lips— and sigh.

"I look like shit."

Not only do I resemble death on a fucking stick, but by the looks of my hair, I'm also suffering from the mange. It seems that my constant hair tugging has progressed to _pulling_, and thanks to my strong roots, it's left me with scattered patches of frizz only an inch long in some spots.

_Got to love OCD…_

All I can see is its disproportion and as hard as I try to look away, I just can't. So, armed with only a dull set of trimmers, I bite down on the butt of my lit cigarette and begin bush whacking the chaos that sticks up on the side of my head. Once all of the right side has been reduced to nothing but stubble, I take a step back to assess the damage.

"I look fucking crazy," I mumble, stubbing the cigarette out in the sink.

As I rub my hand over my scalp, I smile at the odd comfort I feel with the bristles scratching along my palm.

With a shrug of my shoulders, I admit, "At least it's fitting," and return the trimmers to their spot under the sink.

By four o'clock, I've showered and dressed, and am heading out the door to get to work an hour early. I do this when the walls in my apartment start to close in on me.

Just as I turn my key in the lock, a high-pitched catcall sounds from behind me.

"Hey there, hot stuff. Where you off to so early?" I notice Aro, my flamboyantly gay neighbor strut past me with his hand on his hip.

I can't help but laugh a little at his choice of clothes, silently thanking God that at least he's dressed. Today, he's wearing ripped daisy dukes, a white wife-beater and bright pink flip-flops.

_I've had the pleasure of seeing him in a lot less._

"Out," I answer, looking at him from the corner of my eye.

I've learned the hard way to keep my answers short, and NEVER look him in the eye. He's incorrigible, and has a way of turning everything I say into homosexual innuendo.

"Of the closet, I hope." Aro smiles and bats his eyes.

_You see what I mean?_

I laugh and shake my head. "You wish."

"Damn right, I do…On every big fat _star_ I see," he gushes, staring openly at my crotch.

_I'm pretty sure that "star" is a euphemism for something else entirely._

"Where's Felix?" I ask, shifting uncomfortably while trying to change the subject.

"Whoring around somewhere," he says, looking at his fingernails as if he is already bored with the subject. Then with excitement in his eyes, he gasps. "Speaking of whores, it sounded like you had fun last night."

Quickly, I turn to look at him, throwing my rulebook out the window.

"Why? What did you hear? I mean, what are you talking about?"

Dramatically, Aro twirls and presses himself against the wall, thrusting his hips while moaning into the water-stained wallpaper. "Oh, Edward! Yes, yes, yes… You're so big! Fuck me hard… in the ass!"

I cut him off. "What the hell, man?"

I might forget a name, but I never forget an ass. I've been with a lot of freaks in my time, and out of all of them, only a handful have let me go_ there_. If I had made it to fifth base, it would have been branded in my memory forever.

He turns back to me and shrugs his shoulder. "Well, that last part could've been me."

_Did I mention that Aro is gay? Just checking…_

Clearing my throat and covering my junk, I begin to walk backwards toward the elevator.

_I'd rather see his eyes, than feel them on my ass._ "Um, tell Felix I say hi."

As I step inside the elevator, I hear his words fade behind the closing doors. "Tell your hairstylist she missed a spot."

Stepping into the sweltering Nashville heat, I smile at the "Nude Karaoke" sign that lights the slightly seedy alleyway leading toward the city street. With first-hand knowledge, I can tell you that the women there are not actually nude, but more like multi-talented strippers singing bad renditions of Dolly Parten songs.

With the summer at its peak, my walk to work is hot and miserable, making me miss the luxury of having a car. As soon as I moved to Nashville, I sold my pretentious Volvo to an even more pretentious doctor that taught at Vanderbilt University, and have been walking ever since. It's only on days like this that I wish I had my old ride back. If anyone had told me how much summers here sucked, I would have kept my ass in Seattle.

_Seattle…_

It was the day after my eighteenth birthday that I found myself, along with three overstuffed suitcases and five bulging boxes, heading north on the 101 on my way out of the godforsaken town of Forks, Washington. As if it was any better, I had decided that Seattle was just the change I needed.

_If I had known then what I know now, I would have recognized it for what it was — the first of many manic episodes yet to come._

I had gotten the itch about a month earlier, the idea of change giving me a high that the drugs never could. Looking back now, I think Carlisle knew. The day I turned eighteen he handed me the keys to a brand new Volvo S60R, and the next day I got the fuck out of dodge without saying a word. It was a shitty thing to do, but it was my only option. If Esme had known my plans, she would have begged me to stay… and I would have. It was better to just leave, no forwarding address or false promises of returning for the holidays_. At least that's what I told myself._

After a year in Seattle, realizing the familiar rain and cold did shit for my depression, I took off again. I didn't really have a destination. Somewhere south… that was all I knew. First was Oregon, then Wyoming, riding into Colorado by the end of '08. I'd stay for a while, working any job that paid cash under the table until I made enough to get me somewhere else. Once I had the funds, I was off to the next random city with my big ideas of finding what I was looking for. When my impatience crossed over the Tennessee state line, the itch drew me to Nashville. It _was_ the Music City after all, and music was my life. At least it was until the meds started making my hands shake so bad that my fingers couldn't find the chords.

This brings us to the present, my worn boots clomping down the heavily trafficked sidewalk toward Howler's Bar and Lounge.

I work at a little shit hole that stands on the corner of 5th and Broad. The owner, Jake, bought it the year before I moved to Nashville. I was lucky enough to stumble upon it after a long day of job hunting, when I stopped to have a beer. Jake and I hit it off almost immediately. We talked a bit about the local bands he had started showcasing, and it just so happened that he was looking for a bartender to work the late shift. My insomnia made me a perfect candidate for that position and I was hired on the spot. Howler's has since become my home away from home, and Jake, my one and only friend — if you can call someone that when you only see them at work.

As I step out of the heat and into the cool air-conditioning, I am greeted with a bar towel being thrown in my face.

"You just can't stay away, can ya?"

Jake is always the first here and the last to leave, so I'm not surprised to see him.

"Just thought I'd give you a hand opening up." I shove my hands in my pockets, looking around for something to do.

"Nah… Just finished. But you're just in time for a beer." He pulls back two bar stools, leaning over the counter to grab us each a Dos Equis from the cooler.

For the next few minutes, we sit in silence, drinking our beers and watching soccer on the flat screen.

This is just what I need: normalcy. When I'm here I forget that I'm the mental case that eats pills like candy and pisses himself without knowing it. Here, I'm just a normal guy, drinking some beer and shooting the shit.

"So, are you gonna tell me what the fuck happened to your hair, or do I have to guess?"

I look up from the counter to see Jacob staring at the side of my head.

"Oh yeah, I got in a fight with a razor," I joke, scratching at my stubbly scalp.

"Uh huh… For a second I thought it was the skank you went home with last night. She was a real winner, that one. I swear I heard her fart when she walked out the door."

I shake my head at the memory, or lack there of, and sigh. "Why in the hell do you let me do that?"

"What? And miss making fun of you the next day? Besides, you're kinda like my hero. You get more pussy in a_ week_ than I get in a _year_. Would you try to stop Superman from getting laid?"

I contemplate seriously about what he is saying, and finally nod in agreement.

"I rest my case," he boasts, tilting his head back to guzzle what remains of his beer.

With only thirty minutes left until open, I begin sorting the variety of boozes by type and brand, making a list of what we need. Then, I shove my hands in the ice cooler to make room for more Bud's and Miller's, our more popular beers. While I'm elbows deep in ice, I hear the phone ring in the back.

Just as I round the corner to grab more Budlight, Jake walks through the doorway with the phone in his hand.

"It's for you," he says, with a confused look.

"Who is it?" I reach for the receiver hesitantly.

_No one calls me here, or at home for that matter._

With a shaky hand, I raise it to my ear and clear my throat. "Hello?"

I can hear the anxiety in my voice.

"Edward?"

I know exactly who it is as soon as I hear him, and my only response is a strangled cough.

"Edward? It's me, Emmett...your brother."

For the last three years, I have successfully avoided my family like the plague. Now here I am, choking at the sound of my brother's voice while the phone dangles limply from my hand.

_How in the hell_ _did he find me?_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thanks so much for reading! I am almost done with the next chapter, and now that I have a permanent beta, they should post more quickly now. I am hoping to have one a week... no set day (RL doesn't allow for such things : ( <strong>_

_**So, how many of you out there like Fowl-mouthedward? Let me know if you love him or hate him. **_

_**I'm looking forward to hearing from you : ) **_


	3. Chapter 3

_This story is all mine... The characters are not : (_

**Chapter 2: Famous Last Words  
><strong>

_I offer no reason  
>I ask for no pity<br>I make no excuse  
>For the way that I am<em>

And words are like poison  
>That sinks down inside you<br>And some things you do  
>You just don't understand<p>

_**Promises – Lyle Lovett**_

"Eddie? You there?"

_That Jackass! He knows how much I hate that fucking name._

For a split second I think about telling him he has the wrong Edward, or using my limited amount of Spanish to say something like _"No habla ingles, Assholio"_, but in the end I just cut to the chase.

"How did you find me?"

Emmett breathes heavily into his cell phone, the shitty reception making his responding sigh crackle in my ear.

"Five years… Five fucking years and that's all you've got to say to me?" His disappointment only manages to remind me of the reason I left home in the first place.

"What did you expect me to say, Emmett? _Glad you called?_"

"Wow! All these years and you haven't changed a bit. Still that same whiny little bitch you've always been. After all the shit I put up with, and you can't even man-up enough to say '_I'm_…"

I stop him there, not wanting to hear his next word. Hearing it would lead to saying it, saying it would lead to forgiveness, and forgiveness is something I neither desire nor deserve.

"Look, if you called for an apology, your shit outta luck. I did you a favor when I left. You should be thanking me."

"Really? In that case, _fuck you very much_ for being such a heartless bastard and leaving me to clean up your mess!"

His word's hurt, but the truth always does. I am both heartless, and a bastard – at least that's what I assume since my real mother was a prostitute from Port Angeles. I do mean shit on purpose. I'd rather people hate me for being the asshole, than to feel sorry for me for being…me. The anger, I can deal with. It's the pity I can't stand.

I sigh and lean my forehead against the wall. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to come home. Just for a visit."

"Emmett…"

Before I have a chance to tell him _"When hell freezes over"_, he cuts me off.

"For mom."

_Fuck! _

He never did play fair. Even when we were kids he could guilt me into doing just about anything. Like now, knowing the weak spot I have for my mother, he knows exactly what to say to make me cave.

I take a deep breath, and lift my head from the wall. "I'll think about it," is all I can say before hanging up and slamming the phone down on the desk.

_I'll think about it…_

The night flies by, and before I know it, I'm up on the stage with my beat-up guitar strapped around my shoulder. The sad bluesy rhythm of The Black Keys starts to flow from my fingers, emptying out through the small amp to my side. Suddenly I'm lost to the world, and doing time in my own mind.

_Don't it hurt so bad  
>Standin' in the sun.<br>The bottom of your heart  
>You don't love no one.<em>

_You can be  
>Oh, so mean.<br>I just can't see  
>No in-between.<br>You know what the sun's all about,  
>When the lights go out<em>.

My intentions were to play one of my original songs — the piece I had been working on while Tanya was mouthing off in my apartment — but plans change. After talking to my brother, this song just seems more... fitting.

_What a way to live,  
>Back of your class,<br>End of the line,  
>You're always last .<em>

You can be,  
><em>Oh so mean.<br>I just can't see,  
>No in-between.<br>You know what the sun's all about  
>When the lights go out<br>_

If anyone knows _what the sun's all about, _it's me. Living in it — never sleeping — my entire life has felt like one, long, fucked up day.

_See the moon,  
>See the stars,<br>From your lonely seat,  
>In your lonely cars.<em>

You can be,  
><em>Oh so mean.<br>I just can't see,  
>No in between.<br>You know what the sun's all about,  
>When the lights go out.<em>

Tonight — unlike all the others in the last few months — I sit at the bar alone, drinking and thinking about what I've promised. If I could reverse time, I would tell Emmett the truth: I can't go back home. You can call it fear, you can call it pride, but I call it mercy. I wasn't lying when I said he should be thanking me for leaving. I did it as much for them as I did for me. To go back now, would just put us right back where we were. I would be miserable, and in turn, so would they.

I hear the bar stool beside me screech across the dirty cement floor.

"What's this?"

I look up, confused, wondering what the hell Jake is talking about.

"What's what?"

"Drinking alone? Something's wrong with this picture."

I force a smile, unable to hold it there for long. "Not feeling it tonight.

Jake takes a seat next to me, setting down two shot glasses and a bottle of Crown heavily on the counter.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" I ask, trying to hide the fact that I am desperate for someone to talk to.

He pours two shots of the whisky and slides one my way. "About whatever it is that has you wallowing in your beer."

I throw the shot to the back of my throat, and reach for the bottle to fill the glass up again. "The phone call earlier… It was my brother, Emmett."

"I didn't know you had a brother. You guys don't get along?"

"We use to." I smile at a stray thought that passes through my mind. _I wonder if he ever married that bitch, Rose._ "He wants me to come home for a visit."

"That's cool, man. I'll get Vicky to work the early shift and I'll work the late. You're covered, don't worry." He slaps my back, and pours himself another shot.

_He has no idea how worried I am._

"I'm not going."

He turns to me and asks, "Why not? How long has it been, anyway?"

I lower my head and mumble, "Awhile."

He's quiet, and when I can't stand the silence any longer, I cut my eyes to gage his reaction. I can tell he's choosing his next words carefully, wearing the same face Carlisle wore anytime he was about to bring up a subject that he knew was _touchy_.

After a moment, he looks down at his glass and asks, "So, what are you running from?"

His question stumps me.

_Running from?_

If he had asked me this question five years ago, I would have pissed and moaned about my family, my shitty life, my fucking guilt… Now that the years have gone by, and I've grown from a boy to a man, none of that bullshit matters. At some point along the way, somewhere between Washington and Tennessee, my course in life has changed. I'm still running, only it's the chase that's propelling me… not the escape.

_What am I running from?_

Nothing.

_What I'm running toward?_

I have no fucking clue_. _

I decide to keep my answer short and vague, not really up for a long philosophical discussion about my past, or my future.

"The fucking rain."

Jake nods, and after a moment, sits up straight in his chair to stretch. "Yeah, well, your talking to someone who's from the wettest city in the continental US. I didn't really have a clear picture of what the sun could look like until I moved here." He laughs and opens a beer.

"Sounds like Forks," I reply absently, throwing back another shot.

Jake stills, and from the corner of my eye I see his head quickly swivel in my direction.

"Did you say Forks? As in Washington?" Jake looks at me incredulously, then punches me in the arm. "Get the fuck out!"

I answer with a nod. "Heard of it?"

With a population of three thousand, I am genuinely surprised.

"Dude! I'm from the reservation. LaPush?" Lifting up his sleeve to reveal some sort of tribal tattoo, he adds, "One hundred percent Quileute."

I just stare at him in shock. Whether this is fate, destiny, or some kind of aligning-of-the-stars shit, I don't know. What I do know, is that it's just too damn perfect to be coincidence.

"How is that even possible? I would have seen you before." I ask, waiting to hear something that will prove my theory wrong.

He shrugs his shoulder and looks at me as if it all makes perfect sense. "I wasn't allowed to go into town much. My dad wasn't big on the idea of mingling with the "Pale Faces". He says the last couple of words in a heavily punctuated native accent.

Thinking back to the few times that I was around members of the tribe, they did seem a little hard core.

Jake smiles a big, toothy grin and pats my back with a resounding _"whack"_. "That settles it. You're going to Forks, and I'm going with you."

_No, no, no, FUCK NO!_

First I feel the panic, and then my heart plunges into the unsettled liquor in my stomach.

"I don't think that's a good idea, man. I mean, who's going to run the bar?" I'm grasping at straws here, but I need to think of an excuse not to go… and fast.

Jake narrows his eyes at me. "Are you serious? A fucking monkey could do my job. Vicky can handle your shit, and James can handle mine. I've been training that dumb ass on the books for a year now. If he doesn't get it, he never will. Anyway, I haven't been home in over a year, and my dad's been riding my ass about it."

Then he turns on the puppy dog eyes. "You'd be doing me a favor. I'd owe you one."

_God, why does everybody suddenly expect so much of me?_

I liked it a hell of a lot better when I was the unreliable slacker. When people just took me for what I was, and left me the hell alone. Now that I'm actually trying to get my shit together, it's becoming nothing but a pain in the ass.

"I don't have the money for the plane ticket."

"I'll buy it."

"I won't be able to pay you back."

"I wouldn't take it."

"I'm a shitty a travel companion."

"Me too."

"Is there _anything_ I can say that will make you change your mind?"

"Hmm… Not really."

_Damn it!_

"Then I guess we're going to Forks."

It's a done deal. I have no argument, unless I want to go all out and tell him how I left and why I can't go back now. Jake is a good friend, at least the closest thing I've had to a friend in a long time. I don't think I'm ready for him to know the real me just yet. To Jake I'm a working, womanizing, average Joe. To find out otherwise would make us both uncomfortable, and I don't want that. I like things the way they are.

Before leaving the bar, we make plans to head out at the end of the week, on Friday. That gives me four days to either try to talk him out of it, or stock up on enough Xanax to get me through it. I'm pretty certain it will be the later.

The week goes by in a blur, and on Friday I'm sitting in the bar trying to remember where the days went. I've stayed stoned since Monday night so that I could get through the week without having an anxiety attack. If I had allowed myself to think about it too much, I would have surely lost my mind.

As I pop another Xanax in my mouth, I try to still my shaking hands by pressing them flat against the lacquered wood of the bar.

"Ready to go?"

Jake's voice startles me and I almost fall out of my chair.

"Yeah, yeah, man. I'm ready."

As I ride in the passenger seat of Jake's Rabbit, I take in the sites and smell of the city I've grown to love. If any place has felt like home to me, this has. Maybe it's because no one knows me here. No one looks at me with pity, or judges me for not being sane. I don't have to deal with the pressure to act normal, because here… I am. I know that as soon as I get back to Forks, I'll be the same screwed up little boy that I was when I left.

Looking to Jake, I laugh at the way he's drumming on his steering wheel, just a little off beat. Even though he's not originally from Tennessee, he looks the part. With his rocker hair and ripped jeans, he blends in well with the rest of the rednecks.

"So, is Emmett your only brother? You don't happen to have a sister do you?" Jake turns to me and raises his sunglasses, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

"If I did, I wouldn't let _you_ touch her," I yell over the wind, and The Allman Brothers that's playing through his radio.

In truth, if I did have a sister, I would want her to find someone as good-hearted as Jake. In the two years I've known him, he's had one girlfriend, and mourned the loss for over three months after they broke up.

We arrive at the airport three hours before take off. To me, the time gap is a little excessive, but Jake argues that we will need the extra time to check in our luggage and get through security. Once he adds the part about stopping at the bar to get a buzz before we board, I'm in agreement with our ridiculously early arrival.

"So, are you still freaking out about going back home?"

"Who said I was freaking out?" I try to act casual with my answer, shoving my finger into my gin and tonic to fish out the unwanted lime wedge. "I said no _fucking_ twist."

"Right… You're not freakin' out at all." Jake laughs and kills his drink, before waving down the server to ask for another.

"It's been a while, that's all. It's going to be weird, and I don't like weird."

"I know what you mean, but after a couple of days everything will fall back into place, you'll see. It'll feel as though you never left."

_That's what I'm afraid of…_

I begin to feel uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is going, worried that the liquor will make me talk too much. To change the subject, I ask the question that has been on my mind since the night I agreed on this little trip.

"So, why did you leave Forks?"

Jake is quiet for a moment, looking inside his now empty glass, before finally answering.

"When I was six, my parents were in a car wreck. My dad ended up paralyzed from the waist down, and my mom… My mom died. After that, he would hardly let me out of his sight. He was so damn protective over me; I got tired of it."

It's a sad fucking story, and as much as I wish I had it in me say something prophetic and sincere, I don't. Instead, like the suspicious head-case that I am, I dwell of the fact that there seems to be more to the story then just his uptight old man in a wheelchair.

After releasing a heavy sigh, he finally adds, "And there was a girl…"

"Ahhh, and the truth shall set you free," I quip, raising my brow with a smirk.

_I knew there was more…_

Before Jake has time to respond to my snide remark, the server arrives with his second Crown and Coke. He takes it from her hand, downing it before she has a chance to walk away, and asks her for another.

I've never seen him so messed up by a woman, even with Laura… Leah… _Oh, whats-her-fuck. _With the mere mention of _this _girl, and he's a binge drinker with a bad case of the shakes. I have to admit, it's been a while since I've exerted the energy to have a real conversation that went beyond the surface of a topic, but suddenly I catch myself tapping my foot in anticipation of hearing more.

As soon as we are alone again, I ask, "So, what happened?"

His eyes drift down to focus on his glass again. "You know, the classic _I loved her, she didn't love me_ story."

I've heard the story before, but never played a lead role myself. Love isn't a feeling I know much about, or a word that has any kind of meaning to me. I wouldn't know love if it hurled itself at me from a three story building and crushed my fucking my chest.

"So you just left?"

Jake shrugs his shoulder. "What else was I suppose to do? She played the fucking _friend_ card, made me feel guilty for loving her."

"It sounds like you gave up too easy," I say matter-of-factually.

I don't know much about relationships, but I do know women. They like the chase — play hard to get. They don't want you to think they're too easy. The truth is, with enough charm and persistence; you can get any woman you want.

_Look at Donald Trump... Well, money doesn't hurt either._

Jake laughs under his breath. "You don't know, Bella… but you will."

"Oh, yeah?"

He throws a ten dollar bill down on the table and stands to his feet. "She's picking us up when we land in Seattle. You two should get along _great_." His sarcasm doesn't go unnoticed.

_This should be interesting…_

"Can't wait."

The flight is long, over four fucking hours, and I spend the time listening to Jake snore like he's trying to suck the upholstery from the seat in front of him. Lucky for me, the flight attendant is very accommodating and keeps the liquor flowing freely. By the time we land, I'm still flying high and nearing Drunksville.

When we walk off the plane and into the Sea-Tac, it is jam-packed with people. The line to retrieve our luggage ends somewhere in fucking Egypt, and as I shuffle to my spot at the back of the line my bladder spasm with the need to piss. Once we make it back to the Seattle-end of the conveyer belt, I grab my ratty old duffle bag and throw it over my shoulder.

"Jake! Jake! Over here!" I hear a loud voice echo over the roar of people arguing over which luggage is whose.

I turn to see a tall brawny looking guy waving his hand at us.

"Do you know him?" I ask, nudging Jake with my elbow to get his attention.

He pulls at his suitcase, trying to dislodge it from between a mound of matching luggage, and looks up distractedly.

"Who?"

I point to the big Native American male that is still waving and yelling Jake's name.

_How can he be missed?_

Jake smiles and waves back, finally finding the strength to pull his luggage free.

"Sam! How the hell are ya?"

They hug and give each other a manly pat on the back.

"Better than you, ya fat fuck! That's what you get for eating all that southern-fried food. What are you packing now, two-fifty, two- sixty?"

"Fuck you, asshole! This is two hundred and ten pounds of lean-mean-muscle machine." Jake flexes his pecks as I awkwardly cross my arms over my chest to hide mine.

_Mental note: I need to work out…_

"Sam, Edward… Edward, Sam." He quickly gives us an introduction, while ogling the mass of bodies surrounding us. "Where is she?"

I catch myself looking around the crowd, even though I don't know what the hell we're looking for.

"Who? Bella?" Sam smiles, nodding his head toward the wall of windows where I see a feminine figure in a black hoodie watching the planes land.

"She been waiting for you," he answers, patting Jake on the back.

Just as Sam moves to take a step, Jake grabs him by the arm.

"How is she?"

I move in closer, finding his question intriguing.

_Is something wrong with this girl, this Bella? Is she sick? Or just sick of fucking life, like me? _

Sam shrugs, and smiles sadly. "I don't really know. She keeps to herself, doesn't really talk a whole lot. Not even to me." He looks over at her, and while we watch her pull the hood further down over her face he simply states, "I think she's getting worse, Jake."

With a deep inhale, Jake begins making his way to her, and I follow close behind. I take note of the way her arms encircle her waist while she hides from the crowd beneath her hood. I can't really explain it, but there's something familiar about this girl that I just can't put my finger on.

Jake walks up quietly behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. I stare at their intimacy, confused by the way they seem so in tune with one another. I expected her to jump, scream, turn around and fucking deck the unknown face that's touching her… but she doesn't.

Instead, she pulls his arms tighter around herself and let's go of a content sigh. "I've missed you, Jake."

All of a sudden, I don't feel so good. My stomach rolls, and I catch myself before the nausea makes my knees buckle.

_Must be the gin and Xanax cocktail. _

I quickly regain my composure before anyone notices, and sit my duffel bag at my feet.

"Bella, I'd like you to meet someone."

My back straightens at Jake's words, and I anxiously watch as Bella twists around in his arms. As he releases her, he removes the black hood from her face, then her hair.

"Bella, this is Edward. Edward… Bella."

Now, I've never taken a poll, or done any kind of statistical research on the subject, but in my opinion, there are two types of people in this world: those who believe in destiny and those who don't. I, myself, have only recently begun to even entertain the notion that something supernatural could be at work in my miserable life. I've always felt that if destiny was real, and my life has been plotted out by some higher power, then I was probably going to be screwed. If destiny was just a fool's dream, and we had to make our own way, then I was going to screw myself_. _

It's not until this exact moment that I finally come to terms with the fact that destiny _is_ real, and standing in front of me with beautiful brunette hair, and blushing pink cheeks, and…

"Brown eyes."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Hopefully, the update won't take so long next time : ) My husband is out of town for the week and I plan on staying up late and getting a few chapters written, so that I can post more frequently. If I should just stop and let it go, feel free to let me know. If this is something you'd like to hear more of, I'll take that too...<em>**

**_Thanks_**

**_Lori  
><em>**


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